


Thirst

by romanticalgirl



Category: Hornblower (TV), Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-05 19:16:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originallly written for the <a href="http://aos-flashfic.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://aos-flashfic.livejournal.com/"></a><b>aos_flashfic</b> "Water, water everywhere" challenge</p><p>Originally posted 5-3-06</p>
    </blockquote>





	Thirst

**Author's Note:**

> Originallly written for the [](http://aos-flashfic.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://aos-flashfic.livejournal.com/)**aos_flashfic** "Water, water everywhere" challenge
> 
> Originally posted 5-3-06

The heavy scent of the jungle surrounding him as he makes his way through the brush registers little on Bush’s mind. In his hands he carries two wooden buckets in promise to Lady Barbara and her girl of fresh water for their morning wash. He had blushed at the request but intends to carry it out, his Captain’s admonitions that the ladies should be looked after firm in his mind.

He reaches the edge of the clearing and stops, the buckets falling silently in the bed of grass and moss. Captain Hornblower stands at the edge of the creek, just beyond the reach of the waterfall’s spray, his clothes folded neatly on a rotting tree nearby. Bush’s eyes roam over his Captain’s, drinking in the sight of him as Hornblower leans forward and scoops handfuls of water, sending them up against his body, the droplets catching the light as they fall. Hornblower shivers and then steps into the creek, the silver splashing up to his knees, his hiss of reaction sending a sharp shudder through Bush’s body.

Bush takes an involuntary step closer, still shaded by the low hang of branches around him as he watches Hornblower move nearer the waterfall, his steps more assured. The sound of the icy rush, the remembered crisp coldness of it sends Bush’s tongue out to wet his lips. Hornblower shivers again, the heat of the day already shimmering off his skin as it wars with the cool water rushing between his legs, now nearly up to his thighs. Bush swallows hard, seeing the current push against Hornblower’s skin, tug at his flesh.

With a low gasp, Hornblower bends his head, bathing the his hair in the waterfall’s downpour. He steps under the spray and Bush swallows hard, fighting back the sound of his own voice as Hornblower tilts his head back, exposing his face to the water’s hard rain. The bark of the tree is rough through Bush’s shirt – his jacket and waistcoat left back at the camp in deference to the heat of the day and the hard plan of work to be done – and his fingers find and pull at the dark stock at his neck as he swallows again, watching in rapt fascination as Hornblower lifts his hands, running his long fingers through the dark mass of curls.

Hornblower’s fingers rake back, threading through the long coil of his queue, letting the hair spread against his neck as he bends his head down and lets the water beat against his nape, his low moan of pleasure riding to Bush on the heated air. Bush sinks his teeth into his lower lip, saliva forming in response, and he swallows it down his parched throat. He leans harder against the tree, relying on it for support as his hand tugs at his stock, loosening it, his other hand clenched into a fist at his side, his short nails digging into his palm as he fights the urge, the need building inside him.

Lifting his head again, Hornblower tilts his face up to the spray once more, opening his mouth and letting the water fill it, pour over his lips, his face, his chest. Bush swallows rapidly, his hand rubbing the length of his throat, willing away the desire for drink, the unquenchable need as Hornblower’s hands begin a slow sojourn over his flesh, scrubbing away the remnants of sleep and sweat and work. Bush’s eyes wash over his Captain’s body as easily as Hornblower’s hands, tracing over muscle and sinew, drawn down Hornblower’s chest to the dark triangle of hair before Bush forces his eyes away, fighting to swallow against the dry, thickness that clogs his throat.

The imagined taste of the water is on his lips and Bush’s tongue darts out, the cool wet and warm flesh almost real. His body throbs and he closes his eyes for an instant, willing himself under control. When he opens them again, he cannot stop the rumble of desire that consumes him at the sight of Hornblower’s back, golden skinned from his morning turns at the pump, tapering to his thin waist, his flat hips, the curve of his buttocks. Hornblower tilts his head back again and Bush can almost feel the hard press of flesh, his broad chest to his Captain’s back, Hornblower’s wet curls trickling cool water down Bush’s shoulders, his Captain’s head thrown back in wanton disregard for everything but the needs of his body and the same want that consumes Bush - the thick lust that clouds his vision like a hazy mirage.

Bush’s fist pounds hard against his rigid thigh, ache deeper than thirst. His mind swims with the heat of it, far hotter than the sweltering day, and he forces himself to find the buckets with his nerveless fingers. He must leave, he knows this, lest his Captain find him, both of them awash in embarrassment.

One last glance at Hornblower as he steps from the creek, water sluicing from his body in rolling waves, sends Bush fleeing quickly and quietly into the woods, away from the camp and the knowing gaze of his Captain. He dodges the hidden perils of the tangled brush until a root catches his foot and he gasps, falling at the edge of another, smaller stream.

Bush scrambles to the edge of it and curls his fingers in the dirty bank, lowering his face into the cold current then pulling back, gasping for air and shaking his head. His body shudders as he rests back on his heels, shirt and stock wet and dripping.

He lays back on the ground, parallel to the stream, the young grass tickling his flesh as he unfastens his breeches. One hand stays in the rushing water, feeling the constant flow of the icy current, imagining it once more sliding over his Captain. Bush’s other hand slides beneath the parted fabric of his breeches, curving around his hard length, finally quenching his thirst.  



End file.
